One Fifth Avenue

“Saint Barths?” she asked eagerly.

“No,” he said, not wishing to spend the holiday running into Schiffer Diamond and her new lover. “Not Saint Barths. But someplace just as good.”

“Oh, Philip,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “I’m so happy. I was so worried we weren’t going to do anything for New Year’s—I thought maybe you forgot. But I guess you were saving it as a surprise.”

Unable to contain her excitement, she immediately called her mother to give her the good news. Her mother had been funny lately, and Lola thought this would cheer her up.

Three days later, Lola, in a haze of excitement, flew down to Atlanta. Her thoughts were concentrated on her trip with Philip; she would leave on the twenty-seventh and fly directly to Barbados, where she would meet up with him and fly to Mustique. Everyone knew that when a man took you on vacation, he was testing you to see how you got along when you were together all day for several days; if the trip went well, it could lead to an engagement. And so, in the week before she left for the trip, she had almost as much to do as a bride: She needed to buy bathing suits and resort wear, wax herself from head to toe, have her calluses scraped and her elbows scrubbed and her eyebrows threaded. Sitting on the plane, she imagined her wedding day. She and Philip would marry in Manhattan; that way they could invite Schiffer Diamond and that funny novelist James Gooch, and the wedding would get into The New York Times and the Post and maybe even the tabloid magazines, and the world would begin to know about Lola Fabrikant. With these happy thoughts firmly in mind, Lola collected her bags from the carousel and met her mother at the curb. Each of her parents drove a new Mercedes, leased every two years, and Lola felt a swelling of pride at the easy superiority of their lives.

“I missed you, Mother,” Lola said, getting into the car. “Can we go to the Buckhead Mall?” This was a Christmas tradition for mother and daughter. Ever since Lola had gone away to Old Vic University, she and Beetelle would go straight to the mall when Lola came home for the holidays. There, mother and daughter would bond over shoes and accessories and the various outfits Lola tried on while Beetelle waited outside the dressing room to exclaim over the “cuteness” of a pair of jeans or a Nicole Miller dress. But this year, Beetelle was not dressed for shopping. It was her personal edict never to appear in public without her hair straightened and blown dry and her makeup applied, and wearing midpriced designer clothes (usually slacks and a blouse and often an Hermès scarf and several heavy gold necklaces), but today Beetelle wore jeans and a sweatshirt, her naturally curly hair pulled back in a scrunchy. This was her “work” outfit, donned only at home when she jumped in and helped the housekeeper with special chores, such as polishing the silver and washing the Tiffany crystal and moving the heavy oak furniture for a thorough vacuuming of the rugs. “A scrunchy, Mother?” Lola said with affection and annoyance—living in New York had made her mother’s flaws all too apparent—“You can’t go to the mall like that.”

Beetelle concentrated on maneuvering the car through the line of holiday pickups. She’d been preparing for this scene with her daughter for days, rehearsing it in her head like the psychologists suggested in anticipation of a difficult conversation. “Things are a little different this year,” she said.

“Really?” Lola said. She was deeply disappointed, having imagined getting started on her shopping spree right away. But then she was distracted by the satellite radio, tuned to seventies hits. “Oh, Mother,” she said. “Why do you listen to this sentimental crap?”

Beetelle had adjusted to Lola’s dismissive remarks long ago, brushing them away with reminders that this was her daughter who loved her and could never mean to be deliberately hurtful; Lola was, after all, like all young people, occasionally unaware of the feelings of others. But this time the characteristic remark hit Beetelle like a blow to her solar plexus.

“Mother, can we please change the station?” Lola said again.

“No,” Beetelle said.

“Why not?”

“Because I like it.”

“But it’s so awful, Mother,” Lola whined. “It’s so…out of touch.”

Beetelle took her eyes off the road for a second to regard her daughter, sitting impatiently in the front seat, her eyes narrowed in annoyance. An irrational anger overwhelmed her; all at once, she hated her daughter. “Lola,” she said. “Will you please shut up?”

Lola’s mouth opened like that of a little fish. She turned to her mother, unable to fathom what she’d just heard. Beetelle’s face was hard, set in an expression Lola saw rarely and only in brief flashes, as when the head of the school board had dismissed Beetelle’s suggestions to serve only organic lettuce. But her ire was never turned on Lola herself, and Lola was shocked.

“I mean it,” Beetelle said.

“All I said was…” Lola protested.

Beetelle shook her head. “Not now, Lola,” she said.

They were on the highway.

Beetelle thought about the forty-minute drive in traffic and decided she couldn’t go on. Lola had to be told. Beetelle took the next exit. “Mother!” Lola screamed. “What is wrong with you? This isn’t our turn.”

Beetelle pulled in to a gas station and parked the car. She reminded herself that she was a courageous person, a person of honor, who could face the most devastating of circumstances and come out a winner.

“What’s going on?” Lola demanded. “It’s Daddy, isn’t it? He’s having an affair.”

“No,” Beetelle said. She looked at her daughter, wondering what Lola’s reaction would be to the news. She would likely scream and cry. Beetelle had screamed and cried when she’d first heard as well. But she’d gotten used to it—the way, she’d been told by the hospice patients she occasionally visited, one got used to constant physical pain.

“Lola,” Beetelle said gently. “We’re broke. We’ve lost all our money. There. I’ve said it, and now you know.”

Lola sat silently for a moment, then erupted into hysterical laughter. “Oh, Mother,” she said. “Don’t be so dramatic. How can we be broke? I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means we don’t have any money,” Beetelle said.

“How can that be? Of course we have money. Did Daddy lose his job?” Lola asked, beginning to panic.

“He quit,” Beetelle said.

“When?” Lola asked in alarm.